


The Other Side

by Almost_Convinced_I_Am_Real



Category: Daft Punk, The Weeknd (Musician)
Genre: Adventure, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Dialogue Light, Drama, Fantasy, Gen, Gore, Honestly not even I know what most of it means, I think it can be called symbolism at least, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 17:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10621839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Almost_Convinced_I_Am_Real/pseuds/Almost_Convinced_I_Am_Real
Summary: He wakes up with no memory of where, why, or even how. All he knows is that he’s looking for something, for someone: the person whose face he keeps seeing in his dreams. He doesn’t know the goal or purpose of the metallic beings with the sleek, reflective faces that revived him. He’s not entirely sure they know either. Not that it matters. They’re not really accompanying each other anyway – they just so happen to be walking in the same direction through the snowy wasteland.Inspired by the music video for I Feel It Coming.





	

He remembers nothing, he realizes, as he’s roused from his stupor. Not where he is nor why he’s there, nor how he ended up collapsed with his face in the dirt. He spends several minutes blinking away the blur from his vision, then a few more coughing up the ashes from his lungs. Shadows sweep past his eyes. The sky is dark, small bits of snow leisurely soaring back and forth before hitting the ground. Above him stands two beings with sleek, reflective faces. One of them kneels by him, bringing forth an equally sleek hand from beneath its cloak to prod at his stomach. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it wants a reaction. Maybe it just wants to see if he’s dead. He’s too exhausted to care. The other being isn’t even looking at him, but is instead studying something rectangular in its hands. Finally, after the first one jams a finger into his diaphragm, he irritably swats its hand away and sits up. The action causes him to hunch over and cough some more. The kneeling one helpfully thumps him on the back as he almost hurls his own intestines out.

The one still standing, the entirely faceless one, is still considering the thing it’s holding. Its head bobs up and down, looking from the rectangle to him and then back again. At last it seems to decide he’s of no value to them, promptly walking off. The one with the face lingers for a fraction of a moment before following suit, the crunching of the snow under their feet slowly dissipating as the wind swallows the sound.

He attempts to straighten up a little, but it’s difficult. His body is rigid, his joints needing a lot of convincing before they agree to bend. He must have been lying here for a while, or he wouldn’t be this stiff or cold. He reaches up to wipe away a string of saliva from the corner of his mouth, from the coughing fit.

Why is he here? How did he wind up here? No answer comes to mind. All he knows, or rather feels, is that he can’t stay where he is, that he needs to move on. Because far in the back of his head, he knows that he’s looking for something. Wait, no. Not a “thing”. It’s considerably more important than “some thing”. It’s a some _one_. A person.

He just doesn’t know who.

\------------------------------

They don’t accompany each other as much as they happen to walk in the same direction. After managing to get on his feet, he swiftly decided to go the same way as the metallic beings, since the other direction was obstructed by sharp rocks. Also, now he’s going downwind, which is always best. Keeps your eyes dry, and the weather itself helps push you forward even when you’re spent.

The being with the face, the taller one, turns its head when he catches up with them. He briefly wonders if they are going to chase him off, but it merely nods in acknowledgment. The short, blank faced one completely ignores him, barely glancing up from the rectangle to look at the road ahead of it.

They continue traveling in a mostly straight line for a while, no one making a single word, when the short one makes a sudden turn and begins climbing up a small, rocky hill. The tall one immediately changes course as well; soon he does too. At first, he assumes the short one is the leader, but after another hour of hiking he understands that’s not the case. Something about their manners – the way they walk next to each other, how they sometimes appear to wordlessly discuss among themselves, how they “look” at each other – tells him neither qualifies as a “leader”. Perhaps it’s the navigator? Or maybe the rectangle is. Yeah, that seems right. Some kind of tracker thing.

As they journey forward, the snow slowly melts and is replaced by sand and stone. The wind doesn’t cease, but it becomes warmer as the temperature rises, which is good. His torn jacket provides little protection.

The tall one has the longest legs, and thus walks the fastest, frequently putting a number of meters between it and them. Every once in a while, it notices, slows down, and spends the next ten minutes deliberately pacing itself before speeding ahead once more. Eventually, a noticeable distance grows between him and the short one as well. He was fatigued earlier, but now it feels like he is seconds away from dropping. Was this what happened previously, too?

He falls to his knees, his breaths labored. Should he just sleep there? No, it’s too big a risk. He needs to find at least something to act as a ceiling. He looks up to search for a place to rest, only to see the shorter one, stationarily staring at him. Much, much farther away, the tall one spins around. Then it marches back, past the short one, and gathers him in its arms, lifting him with ease. Is the tall one strong, or is he unusually light? Could be either one, seeing as he’s quite sure he hasn’t eaten in some time. From the corner of his eye, he sees the short one resume walking, its attention returned to the tracker thing.

\------------------------------

_He dreams of a pretty face and clever eyes. A mouth moves, a hand touches him. With the exception of his sight, all his senses are non-existent in the dream, but that’s fine. A face like that can have nothing but a warm voice and a soft caress. He only needs his sight to imagine the rest. The mouth laughs – the sound chimes, he decides. He doesn’t know who the face belongs to, but he loves it._

\------------------------------

When he wakes up, he’s covered in a fine layer of snow. Sitting up, he nearly hits his head on the protruding rock he slept under. The sky is gray, the ground is veiled by dense haze. At first it seems the metallic beings are nowhere to be found, but then his eyes adjust to the sharp light and penetrates the fog. The both of them sit on the edge of the mount, the short one cross-legged and the tall one with its limbs dangling over the small chasm. They appear to be watching the sunrise. Or rather, the tall one is – the short one is still occupied with the tracker thing.

He crawls out from his rocky shelter to greet them, the bitter cold instantly hitting him in the face. He wraps his arms around himself in an attempt to rub some warmth into his skin. The tall one is the first to notice he’s awake; it pats the short one on the shoulder as it rises. He smiles at it, wishing to express his gratitude for the help, but his teeth chatter so much it’s almost impossible. The tall one watches him contemplatively, then removes its cloak to put around his shoulders. It’s thick and warm – he straightaway stops shivering. He thanks it properly, then asks if they have any names. The tall one turns around and tugs down its collar, revealing characters engraved on its neck: T, then either a B or an 8, then either an O or a 0, then a 3. The short one turns its back towards him, without letting go of the tracker thing. The tall one tugs down the short one’s collar for it, showing a similar print: G, M, something fully scratched out, and an 8.

He asks if he can call them T3 and G8. T3 nods. The expedition carries on.

\------------------------------

The climate continues to fluctuate between mild and harsh, but the snow never stays away for long. T3 lets him keep the cloak. It doesn’t seem to need it anyway. He is actually fairly certain both of them are either mostly metal or entirely metal. No wonder they never sleep or freeze.

He tells them he is looking for someone, and asks them what they’re doing there. T3 makes a half-shrug, either not sure itself or not in the mood for divulging the reason to him. At one point, he tries to sneak a peek at the tracker thing, but G8 puts a swift stop to that by pressing the rectangle to its chest and staring at him until he backs off. For someone with no face, G8 is surprisingly good at glaring.

As the time passes he becomes aware of how the sun never travels across the whole sky. It goes a quarter-way up before setting in the same cardinal direction as it rose, leaving the heaven in perpetual shades of red. The days aren’t even one third as long as the nights, but that’s all right. Night is better than day anyway; the stars never lie to you.

One day is cloudier than normal. He wonders if it’s a bad omen, and gets proven right real fast as the dust storm suddenly hits them. Within seconds they’re overwhelmed by powdery soil and dazzling sparks. Grasping hands so they won’t lose each other, they fumble around until they come across a horde of rocks to hide among. T3 rips off his cloak, using it and G8’s to protect them from the chaos. Behind both stone and heavy fabric, they’re safe, able to calmly listen to the shrieking wind and booming thunder. The only light they have is the shine from the tracker reflecting off G8’s face.

Closing his eyes, he leans his head against T3’s shoulder. He was beginning to get tired anyway.

\------------------------------

_He dreams of dancing barefoot in a shimmering mist, wearing filthy clothes and unpolished jewelry. There’s no music, but who needs music when you have a face like that in front of you? He can create his own music, just by looking at that face. As long as the full lips smile and the round hips mimic his movements, he can do anything. Whenever, wherever, whatever that is needed of him, he’ll do._

\------------------------------

The storm blows away the snow, if not the cold, leaving the area as a typical desert landscape once more. The first thing they discover after dusting off their cloaks is tracks in the sand. Snake tracks. The storm must have stirred them out of hiding. The tracks lead down a hill, seemingly heading for an enormous mountain in the distance. They fill him with optimism. He asks, actually _insists_ , that they start follow them. After a few minutes of silent consideration, his companions agree to it.

For some reason, the thought of the snakes energizes him to the point that he keeps up with T3’s gait for the whole day along with most of the night. The next day, he’s more irritable, mostly because of how G8’s significantly calmer pace slows them down. He asks, repeatedly, for G8 to hurry up, which the latter, repeatedly, vows it will do. It’s not until it’s almost time to halt for the day that he realizes G8 purposely _slowed down_ its walking each time he asked. He stops mentioning their speed after that.

They’re slowed even further when, one night, they spend hours upon hours hiding from a pack of black, four-legged beasts that are teaching their young cubs to hunt. The animals are slim, almost bony, with sharp claws and white eyes. Clear saliva drip from their bulging fangs. One bite could very well be enough to sever his arm, and probably substantially damage the other two. Because of that they stay put the whole night, listening to the animals skulk about in the darkness. When the sun rises, the beasts are fortunately gone, but _un_ fortunately most of the snake tracks are too. He is dejected for a short moment, before shoving all those kinds of feelings aside. They simply have to search the ground more carefully now, that’s all.

The faded tracks take them to a muddied lake, a blanket of fog hovering over the water surface. The lake itself is big, probably so huge it would take weeks to walk around it, but that’s irrelevant since a thin bridge of stone allows them to cross it instead. Seeing past the lake to the opposite shore is impossible, but none of them is willing to give up due to something so trivial. The journey across _is_ somewhat fearsome, however, due to the bridge’s narrowness – one wrong step and you’ll be drenched, or drowned depending on how deep the lake really is. When they have about one third of the bridge behind them, the sounds of the lake – the dripping, the rippling, the swashing – are exchanged for something new. Whispering. Giggling. Crackling.

Glancing to the sides, he sees lights moving in the fog. Flickering shapes jumping, twirling, frolicking in the distance. The farther they get, the closer the lights come. Soon, the burning silhouettes are fully visible as they dance around the trio. Reach out far enough and you can touch their hand-shaped appendages. But that would be foolish. It’s obvious coming too close would mean death. It’s their voices that give them away: not even the most ethereal beauty could conceal that sinister intent.

The sound of one sweeps past his ear. He twirls around to see how close the shape is. Not at all, it turns out. Not to him.

He lunges forward to grab G8, as always engrossed by the tracker thing, pulling it back with him right as the fiery shade hurls itself out of the lake, aiming to knock the shorter metal being off the bridge and pull it to the bottom. The burning shape hisses, sizzles in a manner only fire can, at them for foiling its plan.

G8 gives him a shaky pat on the shoulder before stashing the tracker thing inside its cloak, not bringing it out again until they reach dry land.

\------------------------------

The scenery after the lake is so monotonous he almost starts longing for the smell of mud and the sound of undulating water. Sand and rock, sand and rock, occasionally a shriveled-up tree – _maybe_. But then, they arrive at the cave. A gaping, black mouth in the side of a mountain. (Not _the_ mountain they spotted immediately after the storm, though. It’ll take much longer to reach that.) The darkness engulfs them the instant they step inside. For a moment, he thinks they’ve entered the deepest, blackest hole that will ever exist. Then the ceiling opens up to reveal it is the bearer of its own cosmos. Against a lightless backdrop floats tiny iridescent dots, and around the lights a vibrantly dyed dust swivel softly, curling into a myriad of shapes. The colors range from mysterious blue to frenzied orange, from vivacious purple to electric green, from hypnotizing yellow to sensual red.

He doesn’t want to leave at first, but to gaze at the simulated firmament until his eyes wither.

It’s only when T3 points out two hollows in the middle of the cave that he manages to tear himself from the mesmerizing sight. In one of the hollows are dozens of dead snakes. It cracks the edge of his heart when he lays eyes on them, thinking this is the end. But, hope is restored when he sees the second hollow, which is filled with eggshells. Snake eggs, to be precise. From the egg-hollow there are more tracks, smaller but so newly made they are instantly visible. They head for a tunnel farther into the cave. After one last glimpse at the ceiling, they continue through it.

The passageway becomes the second darkest thing they’ve ever experienced. G8 takes the lead, using the tracker thing as a light source to guide them. The short trip is claustrophobic, as even the least tapered sections of the tunnel have them scraping their arms against the walls. He suspects this is what drowning feels like. The chilly current that whips his face after hours in the tunnel is a great relief. It’s also a promise of what’s to come, for by exiting the tunnel they enter another glacial environment, this one even icier than the previous ones. It’s telling when T3’s movements turn sluggish due to its joints nearly freezing up.

He worries that the snakes won’t survive in the snow, but astonishingly enough the fresh tracks continue through the snowy field, eventually taking them to a valley with faces chiseled into the stone. It’s masterfully done, the expressions going from blissful to furious to horrified. The raw emotion of them, the latter ones in particular, unsettle him quite a few times.

Then the unforeseeable happens.

A blazing comet rushes past them on the night sky, going in the direction they just came. G8 stares at it as if transfixed. Its head proceeds to dart between the tracker thing and the diminishing comet, before it swivels to T3, gesturing frantically to the light in the sky. T3 nods excitedly. His heart sinks.

The argument doesn’t last long. He wants to keep following the snakes; they want to pursue the comet. In the end, the only thing they can do is split up. He prepares to undo the cloak around his neck, but T3 stops him. It seems to think he needs the warmth more. Hopefully, he can return it another day.

\------------------------------

_He dreams of hot light and tears carved into otherwise perfect cheeks. It’s not supposed to be this way. He cannot understand how it came to be this way. He doesn’t know why… He only tried to make things better. But it’s still all right, isn’t it? Broken things don’t have to stay that way. He can still make things right. He just needs a chance to try._

\------------------------------

The dust storm catches him completely unaware. There is no shelter in sight, not a single rock or tree to hide behind. Ultimately, he’s forced to bundle up inside of his cloak and lie down on the spot. It’s risky, not only due to the storm itself but because of the wildlife. Staying immobile for too long is suicide, especially when you’re alone. His plan is to stay put for as long as he _has_ to, then get up and spend the last remnants of the storm speeding towards the first refuge he can find. The thunder roars. The sand sneaks between the fabric and attempts to slither down his windpipe. The wind… The wind _laughs_ at him. Snidely it asks how _exactly_ he thought he could survive on his own?

Shutting his eyes tightly, he compels his mind into other directions. He doesn’t go to sleep, although he needs it. He must be on the move as soon as the weather allows him to – he has not a single second to lose.

Hours later, so many he lost count, he rises and runs. The wind is still strong, but not so strong it’ll be able to topple him over, and the sparks constantly threaten to burn him, but at least the lightning has stopped. It’s good enough. Through the airborne soil, he spots what looks like a hill. When he gets to it, he’ll be a little bit safer. A mere moment from now, he can get a proper rest.

But… Off to the side, a light. A burning silhouette that dances through the storm with an enviable effortlessness. It moves smoothly, swaying to an inaudible rhythm. Within an instant, it’s in front of him. The face… It’s so defined. Beautiful. With eyes that sparkle and lips that smile. He wants to touch it. It extends a hand towards him. It wants him to touch it as well. He-

Explosion.

Something in his head explodes, a throbbing pain in his left temple. Blood trickles down his face. A stone – light enough for the wind to carry but robust enough to hurt – was sent crashing at his head. The beautiful fire has disappeared. Good. It was a distraction. He continues towards the hill. By the time he’s almost reached it the storm just about subsides. He’ll be able to sleep in peace, quietly in his cloak, propped against some soft earth, peacefully dreaming-

White-hot pain strikes his body. A heavy weight shoves him; he falls forward. Instinctively, he rolls back onto his feet, spinning around to come face to face with what tore up his back. One of the black beasts growls at him, claws slightly reddened by his blood.

Blood. It must have smelled his blood, he presumes as he wipes another few drops from his eye. The beast circles him. His back aches, but fortunately it’s not that bad – the cloak absorbed the worst of it. There isn’t much use of the garment after this, however. He hopes T3 won’t be upset.

The beast leaps at him. Dodging isn’t an option. Even when well-rested he’d be too slow, so he meets it head-on. Shielding himself with his own arms, he grabs the beast’s head in an attempt to steer away the fangs. They land in a heap on the ground, proceeding to tumble around in a frantic battle. He somehow ends up on top, using all of his meager mass to press the beast into the gravel under them. The hind legs kick him, the claws slashing both cloak and flesh to shreds. With his arm to the beast’s throat, to keep the jaws away, he tries to kick back, knee it in the belly. It squirms, almost getting loose. His unoccupied hand reaches for a stone, barely in reach for his fingertips. They brush against it, just about grasping it. The animal wriggles, twisting its head free enough to sink its teeth into his shoulder. He screams so loud all other sounds vanishes. A punch, two punches, three punches to the beast’s head before it lets go. He curls up, moaning and sobbing, whilst the beast circle him. Cloth and skin hang from between its teeth. It roars. He sits up. Flexing the fingers of the damaged arm is possible, but sends currents of intense agony through him each time. His non-dominant hand clutches the stone. The beast dives for him, but this time he’s quicker. He first hits it in the eye, then the throat with his foot. Lastly, by pure luck, the stone connects with a soft spot on the animal’s head. It plummets, dead.

Gasping – his arm useless, his face bruised, his legs bleeding – he stands. The stone slips from his grip, landing with a thud. Sand whirls around his feet as he stumbles forward. The hill, the hill… Or maybe back, from where he came? Maybe-

Another bout of pain, though a laughable one compared to what he’s just been through. It merely makes him hiss between clenched teeth. Looking down, he sees a snake stuck in his ankle. Thin, black, kind of sluggish as it slithers away after letting go. He manages to take four clumsy steps before falling over. He can’t feel his right foot, the one bitten. Venom? Was it venomous? Judging by the sudden nausea and the inferno in his head, as if his brain is boiling, he must say “yes – yes, it is”. Walking is no longer possible, so he crawls using one arm and one leg. When his other leg gives up, he pulls himself forward. When his arm goes numb, he scarcely has time to roll onto his back, lest he find himself lying face-down again. His breathing is shallow. His thought process is slow. Paralyzed. Of all the things that could happen…

\------------------------------

_He dreams of echoing footsteps and high-pitched screams. There are no images, only noise. Awful, blaring noise. Hurt. It hurts. Crying. Misery. Hopelessness. Who is to blame? No, don’t say it, please. He doesn’t want to know any more._

\------------------------------

He doesn’t know how he’s alive enough to wake up again. His vision is clear. He can’t move anything other than his eyelids. Shadows sweep past his mind. The sky is dark, small bits of snow leisurely soaring back and forth before hitting the ground. Above him stands two beings with sleek, reflective faces. One of them kneels by him, bringing forth an equally sleek hand from beneath its cloak to caress his cheek. G8 cups his face, uses its thumbs to wipe his eyes. Tears or blood? He has no idea. T3 kneels as well, to remove the shreds of cloak from his torso. It fumbles, concentration darting from his chest, to his shoulder, to something else.

He parts his lips; a whine seeps out, his tongue too heavy to make coherent sounds. T3’s movements quicken. G8 still hovers above his face. The air is getting thinner. Why is this taking so long?

T3 straightens slowly, shoulders drooping. Its red-stained hands lying limp by its side. Has it given up? He wishes he could’ve told it not to bother to begin with. His metal companions lock gazes. G8 takes his broken hand, weaving their fingers together. T3 takes the other hand, but by the wrist. It brings forth a thin object, long with a glisteningly sharp edge. The blade is pressed to his numb forearm, resulting in a long, neat incision. The blade continues down his entire arm, digging past the muscle, leaving red, wet streaks he can see but not feel. After his arm, his leg. After his leg, his torso. After his torso, his face. T3 carves into his hide, making slight pauses every now and again to tug it off his body. G8 pats the back of his hand, until T3 starts cutting it, upon which G8 moves on to stroking the snow out of his eyes. The broken arm is bent; T3 has to lift it and use jerking motions to pull off the skin. He shakes, his body making involuntary jolts as T3 flays him. There are marks on the spot he was bitten, jagged gashes from the animal’s teeth and his own splintered bones.

He’s lightheaded by the time T3 pulls the skin from underneath him. His airways are almost too tight to function. T3 tidily folds and places the skin it on the ground, before thrusting the blade into his chest. These slices are not nearly as elegant as the previous ones, with T3 visibly struggling as it peels away the flesh. G8 is still watching him, sitting hunched over to protect him from the snow. One of its hands touches his eye, tracing the lid. It pushes down, into the socket. The fingers go beneath the eyeball, gently clinching it. There’s a pause, before a sharp, rapid yank plucks it out. G8 surveys the soft sphere in its palm whilst ruffling his hair. His remaining eye glances down at T3’s efforts. The flesh is now gone and the ribs are fractured, like pointed spikes sticking up from his chest. T3 delves into his chest cavity.

\------------------------------

_T3 and G8 carefully tread over a frozen river, the ice disguised by a white powder. He is tied around T3’s neck, as compensation for the ruined cloak. The taller of the pair is also the one carrying his pulsating core, never letting it out of sight. G8 is as always occupied by the rectangle, but once in a while it tilts its head up, as if to meet his gaze. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he likes his spot. It allows him to watch the night sky. It’s forming a pretty face tonight, with the two brightest stars as the eyes._


End file.
